


A Song of Stars and Outlaws

by azulaahai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon is an outlaw yay, Robb is alive and kitn, Sansa likes stargazing, Wow, fluff-ish I think?, for the jonsa exchange, not sure what the hell is going on here to be honest, the Watch steals from the rich and give to the poor, the vaguest loosest Robin Hood AU of all time, there is a plot but it's terrible and awful so I'll pretend like there isn't, why did I make it so long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/pseuds/azulaahai
Summary: Jon Snow, royal bastard and outlaw, leads the Watch in raids against wealthy travellers deep in the northern forests. When he and his men happen upon the caravan of Sansa Stark, a lady of Winterfell and sister of the new king in the North, she presents him with a choice that could change both of their lives.





	A Song of Stars and Outlaws

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geekprincess26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekprincess26/gifts).



> Part of round 4 of the Jonsa exchange. The theme was "Fairytales & Myths".

It was the singing that gave him pause.

Jon Snow stayed absolutely still, crouching in the ditch, the early morning's chilly air making him alert. The forest laid as quiet as a forest can lay around him - apart from the rustling of wind and the chirping of birds, there was peaceful silence.

Or rather, there _had_ been peaceful silence.

Now, someone was singing.

It had been so long since Jon heard true singing. Sure, the men of the Watch might bellow out some racy song while drunk every once in a while, but it wasn't _music_ , not in the honest and true sense of the word. _This_ singing, the singing that now came floating between the trees like a mist, was captivating in it's beauty, heartbreaking in it's clarity. A woman's voice. Jon did not recognise the melody - it was a ballad, the words unintelligible at this distance. For a heartbeat, Jon was engulfed by that cursed singing.

But only for a heartbeat.

Then he began hearing other things - hoofbeats on the road, muffled conversation.

Someone was approaching, aye, travellers on the road - the group they had been waiting for.

Without a sound, Jon turned to Edd at his side, and nodded. His right hand man began signalling to the others, who scrambled into position at the side of the road. The Watch was ready in a moment - they had, after all, done this many times before.  

Jon Snow had been born an outlaw, his status as a royal bastard son forcing him into exile in the northern forests. He'd spent most of his life in hiding, sneaking from one town to the other. It was a rough life, one that taught rough lessons. He learned to fight, because he had to - learned to plan, because he had to. A lonely life it was as well, and one that forced him into contact with poverty and suffering. There were many, so many like him in the northern forests - so many who spent their lives struggling to survive.

The Watch had been born out of that struggle - a desperate attempt to even the odds of the world, to chaotically and entirely illegally improve the lives of those who needed it. Jon Snow was already fighting for himself. He was sixteen when he began doing so for others.

He refused to steal from those as piss poor as he was, the very people he had wanted to help. As did many of the young men he convinced to join him. It was difficult, deep in the northern forests, to find wealthy enough targets - people one could rob without feeling guilty. Rich folk, to steal from and give to the poor. They were few and far between, out here, for Jon and his men.

But every once in a while, they got lucky.

Every once in a while, something _big_ came along.

And today was mayhaps one of those days.

The singing was closer now, clearer, but Jon refused to let it enchant him, gesturing last-minute orders to his men.

And so the caravan came into sight, traveling slowly down the road. At least twenty men, maybe more - the rumors had been true. Jon felt his lips curve upward in an involuntary grin. Twenty men meant full bellies and quenched thirsts for him, his men and nearby villagers alike.

The singing from the caravan, still carrying on, made the scene seem a little dream-like. In a haze of a strange kind, Jon saw his men hesitate in the ditches beside the road as the caravan approached, awaiting his orders to finally attack.

He wasn't about to give those orders just yet. The caravan had to come closer … closer … just a little bit …

Jon gave the order.

The singing ceased when the fighting began.

* * *

They had locked her up.

In the small wheelhouse that felt suspiciously like a prison cell, Sansa had spent a fortnight. It was beginning to drive her mad, the lack of space, lack of interaction. Not even the thought of _home,_ the home she’d thought was lost to her, the home that was now coming closer and closer with every passing day, could distract her from her claustrophobic surroundings.

To maintain some shred of sanity, after a few days on the road, cramped up in the wheelhouse, Sansa had began singing.

She had sung every song she could remember, every song she’d ever memorised, and when she’d run out of songs, she’d sung them all again once, twice, thrice over. Funny, almost inappropriate songs that would make her mother blush if she’d heard - heartbreaking love stories that had made her weep for days when she was younger - clever-worded songs with rhymes she struggled to recall. She sang, and sang, and sang again - stopped only to eat. Her guards must think she’d lost her wits, Sansa reflected, the thought strangely endearing. She knew they must’ve heard her, singing her lungs out in this gods-damned wheel house. But no one’d said anything - no one told her to be quiet as they travelled on bumpy, unkept roads.

So Sansa sang. Most of her waking days.

Until, that was, after a fortnight, when the screaming began outside the wheelhouse and her by now well-polished, if she was allowed to say so, performance of ‘Jenny’s song’ was interrupted. Sansa fell silent then, the quiet immediately making her feel as if though the wheelhouse walls were creeping closer.

It _was_ screams that could be heard outside her mobile prison - shouting, and loud thumps, and a strange beast-like _roar_ that sent a shiver down Sansa’s spine.

It appeared they were under attack.

This left Sansa in a perilous, strange situation.

Did she root for the captors whom she’d already been held prisoner by for so long? Or did she wish for a new set of keepers, possibly risking even greater dangers than before?

A thousand years ago, she might have hoped that the attackers were friendly, perhaps sent by her brother to rescue her and whisk her away to safety. But Sansa was older now, warier. She knew anyone who jumped a caravan deep in the northern wilderness probably did not have the purest of intentions.

And so she sat still, fear, so familiar by now, clutching her heart, waiting. She desperately missed the singing, too afraid now to even hum a tune, listening to the sounds of the fight outside the wheelhouse like a hare listening after the fox.

* * *

The scouts, Jon realised while frowning, had been wrong.

The fighting was over by then, having passed surprisingly quickly. Several of the caravan men had fled the scene on horseback immediately upon the launch of the attack, leaving their companions to fend for themselves. _Cowards_. Some caravan men had died fighting - the rest had eventually yielded, when realising the Watch had surrounded them.

Jon had not lost a single man, and for that, he thanked the gods.

But when rounding up their spoil, Jon had that thought.

The scouts _had_ been wrong. This, it became obvious, was not some merchant’s caravan. They had carried little of value, almost no goods, and the men were too well-armed for simply traveling from one market to another.

This, Jon slowly began to understand with a knot in his stomach, as they came upon the barred wheelhouse, was a prisoner’s transport.

* * *

Sansa did not know how much time had passed when she heard the wheelhouse door beginning to be unlocked.

She’d noted the silence, of course - the shouting from earlier had now been replaced with the muffled sound of voices, speaking surprisingly calmly to one another. Once or twice, she’d even heard laughter through the walls of the wheelhouse, the sound almost thawing some of her fear. 

But now strangers were at her door, strangers whom’s mercy her life now depended on.

_Fear is for the winter._

Sansa took a deep breath.

* * *

Jon did not know what he’d been expecting, really.

Considering all the locks and guards of this damned wheelhouse, he’d assumed whoever was locked inside was dangerous. A world-class assassin, perhaps? A kingslayer? A whole band of elite soldiers somehow crammed into this tiny wheelhouse?

 _Whatever_ he’d been expecting to find within, it was _not_ the sight that greeted him.

A girl, looking to be about his age. Finely dressed, surely well-off. Noble, probably. Hair of fire, eyes of ice. Even as she sat there, in that oh-so-small wheelhouse trembling, watching him half-break down her door, she met his eyes with her chin high.

Jon was suddenly keenly aware of how he must appear to her - sword in hand, someone else’s blood staining his shirt, his men behind him awaiting his orders. This girl’s fate laid entirely in his hands. A strange sorrow struck him at the thought.

“I ... we’re not going to hurt you, my lady”, Jon said clumsily, voice hoarse, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “You can come out of here, if you’d like.”

She did not seem very impressed at his words, still looking frightened. He took a step back, unsure what to do. Raiding wealthy mercenaries was one thing. Finding girls locked up in wheelhouses was quite another.

“I ... uhm ...” She stared at him, eyes wide, before glancing at the men at his back. Jon could not tell what she thought of what she saw. Hesitantly, she got up from her seat, stepping towards him and the door, her legs trembling visibly as he moved out of the way and she stepped out into the open air.

The moment her feet touched the ground, she seemed to relax a little - her breathing became calmer as she looked around as if assessing the situation. When the girl looked back at him, the frightened glint in her eyes had dimmed a little. She straightened her back.

“And what is your name, ser?” It was strange, he thought, that that should be her first question. Someone - Pyp, most like - snorted in the background.

“I’m no ser, my lady.” He was so suprised at her inquiry that he gave her the truth. “My name is Jon Snow.”

A sudden knowing look passed over her face.

“The famous outlaw?” she asked before she could stop herself, it seemed.

“Just the man.” Another snort from one of his men behind him. “And you are?”

“Sansa”, she almost whispered. “Sansa Stark.”

He froze in the middle of a movement - it was time for _his_ eyes to go wide.

Stark.

The name was a spell all on it’s own in the northern parts of the world, startling his men, that went unusually quiet. 

Stark. The lords of Winterfell. 

Even living so deep within the forests, with hardly any contact with the outside world, he knew the power of that name.

* * *

She had given him a truth he might use against her, and Sansa carefully eyed this Jon Snow to determine what he would do next. 

She’d heard the tales of him, of course. Any northern child must have heard of the brave Jon Snow, the outlaw who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. When told to Sansa, the tales had likely been meant to be cautionary - to keep her from wandering off into the woods. But standing here, she no longer was scared. 

He was so _young._ They all were, his men - young, and ragged, and unwashed, with curious eyes and shadows of smiles, real, innocent smiles, on their faces. How long had it been since Sansa had heard someone laugh for the sake of laughter?

She could not be frightened now. 

“I ... do you know me? I am ... I am the daughter of Ned Stark.” She looked at Jon Snow when she said it. 

“He was killed for treason.” It was a mere statement of fact, but Sansa did not think the condoling look on Snow’s face was something she imagined.

“Aye”, she said, the confirmation stinging her heart like a stitch in a wound. “By the southern king. Joffrey.” The name still bitter in her mouth. “I am his daughter - Ned’s daughter - and I was ... I’ve been held hostage in the south.”

“And now you’re here.” A question.

“I’m ... well, you see, my brother ...”

“Robb Stark.” Jon Snow’s expression was unreadable, but Sansa risked shooting him a careful smile. It felt strange on her face.

“Aye. My brother Robb. He’s ... “ Suddenly she realised the risks involved with surrendering this information. She’d been so foolishly relieved to see someone else than Lannister men after all these weeks - she’d thrown caution to the wind. Most like, these people had little love for royalty. Cursing her own ignorance, she fell silent.

“He’s what, my lady?” Jon Snow urged. She couldn’t tell if it was meant to reassure or threaten her.

It had been foolish to say as much as she had, but perhaps it was more foolish to fall silent now. She bit her lip.

“He’s just declared his independence. Northern independence, that is. He’s named himself king in the north. And ...” The words came to her flowing - now that she’d begun speaking, she could not stop. “... the southern king is afraid Robb’ll march south, you see. He’s ... I mean, the north is strong. So, uhm, after my father ... they ... I was sent home. As a conciliatory gift, if you will.” She attempted a smile, but it felt pale even to her.

Anger, prominent on his face - anger at her or the king?

“So we just disturbed the hostage delivery of a princess.” Jon Snow suddenly looked as if he was going to be ill. Sansa tried to smile again.

“I suppose you did.”

* * *

Jon had wandered off.

His men were returning to camp in the clearing they’d all spent the night in - Edd had taking the girl with him, promising to get her something to eat. Jon had left them, going off to brood in the familiar dimness of the deep northern woods.

He was in an impossible situation. 

Normally, the Watch would leave their targets unscathed, unless they fought, simply stealing most of their riches and then sending them on their way. 

Doing so with this noble girl would surely lead to her death, an outcome that made a pit of dread open in his stomach. He might as well slay her himself. 

The alternative, however ... 

She had plead with him, of course. Sansa. Sansa Stark. Not gotten on her knees, but she’d nearly begged him. Promised him riches and rewards if he helped escort her north, to Winterfell. Jon nearly snorted at the thought. Him and his band of outlaws, prancing into the northern king’s courtyard with a princess in toe.

But there was something else that could come of helping Sansa travel north - something more valuable. If what she said was true and her brother really had proclaimed himself king ... 

A king could grant a royal pardon. Then, perhaps, after helping the king’s sister, Jon could be pardoned. His men could be pardoned. 

A fool’s hope. 

(More than he’d had for ages now.)

They could all wind up in a dungeon - or an unmarked grave, for that matter.

(They could all wind up being free.)

Let a princess die, or be free to live honestly?

Jon cursed under his breath.

It wasn’t much of a choice, now, was it?

* * *

The singing guided him back to camp.

A woman’s voice led again - Sansa’s voice, he realised - but this time, the more enthusiastic than competent voices of the Watch had joined her, singing a fastpaced, humorous tune about a man and his donkeys that had Jon having to fight to keep back a smile.

When he stepped into camp, the sight was almost painfully idyllic. The clearing, cloaked in the dimness of twilight, was lit up by the large campfire, and around it sat most of his men. They’d been drinking, he could tell - as always, after a successful raid. His eyes found the princess, sitting swept up in furs by the fire, the warm light of the flames setting her red hair aglow. She was smiling a little. A scared smile. Jon swallowed. The singing had faded now, giving way to lighthearted conversation.

As he approached, however, they all, one by one, fell silent. By the time he reached the circle of men, the crackling of the fire was all that could be heard, and every face was turned to him, including that of the princess.

They had been awaiting his decision, Jon knew. Theirs was a group built on trust and cooperation, but he was their leader, and it was on his shoulders the burden fell to choose.

He felt the expectant eyes of his men, but he could not find it in him to make a grand speech. Instead, he stared directly at the princess by the fire.

“Sansa Stark”, he called out, his voice sounding louder in the quiet of the clearing. “The Watch will escort you home.”

His men erupted in cheers, and for the first time, Sansa’s smile seemed authentic.

* * *

Sansa could not take her eyes off the stars.

The night was cool, but not harshly cold around her. They’d given her ale to drink, something much stronger than the Arbor gold she’d become used to, and as she sat by the fire, she felt warm and wonderfully lighthearted in a way she had not in months. Years, even.

Jon Snow had taken a seat beside her, sitting quiet for most of the night, his presence oddly comforting to her, despite his almost sulking silence.

And Sansa could not take her eyes off the stars.

She’d sat cramped up in that wheelhouse for a fortnight. To eat and relieve herself, they’d only let her out once in the morning, right before sunrise, and once late at night, way past sundown. So twice a day she’d look up at the stars, glittering so reassuringly unfathomably far away, and when the guards had taken her back to the wheelhouse, she’d wished she could stay out just a little while longer, just to see the stars.

And now, here she was, under the naked night sky, no one waiting to steal the stars away from her again. And she could not tear her eyes away.

Jon Snow stayed with her, even when the other men began dropping off one by one, either going to bed in the tents raised along the tree line or falling asleep by the fire, amidst the cozy comfort of friends. When Sansa momentarily looked away from the stars to glance at the man at her side, she found that Jon Snow, famous outlaw, hero of a hundred songs, was stargazing just like her.

He looked down when he felt her gaze on him, however, dark grey eyes regarding her under raised eyebrows.

“You’re just like the stories.” It took Sansa a moment to realise she’d said that out loud.

“Pardon?” Snow said, looking startled.

“I’m ... I just ... I have heard stories about you.”

“ _Me_?” he echoed sweetly, and Sansa fought back a smile. “You heard stories of me?”

“Yes! Jon Snow, the gentle outlaw, hero of the small folk ...” The ale had loosened her tongue, and Sansa was only mildly unaware of the potential impropriety of this conversation. “I ... I have heard many stories. Of many different folks. I used to ... I used to believe all of them. But now, I, you know ... so many stories turn out not to be true. Not yours though. Your stories were true, I think.” She felt a blush rise to her cheeks at her incoherent ramblings. She’d left her wits at home a year ago. 

She much looked forward to finding them again.

To her surprise and relief, Jon Snow seemed more amused than offended, more flattered than flustered at her words.

“Yes”, he simply said. “Perhaps some stories are true, after all.”

Sansa looked up at the stars, a floating feeling in her heart.

The stars looked back down at her, at the two of them sitting by the fire. 


End file.
